CHAPTER 16
Rory’s chest felt too tight to breathe. Claws of grief sank into his belly and tore his guts.
“Please, God, not him,” he said. “Brian cannot be dead.”
“He made it past Stirling, but not to Edinburgh,” Malcolm said. “He was killed in the village of Torwood, near Falkirk.”
“Nay, this is a lie devised by Hector.” It had to be. Rory could not let himself believe it, would not believe it. Not without proof.
“I’m sorry, son,” Malcolm said.
“Even if Brian and Farquhar were foolish enough to ride into the Lowlands, that doesn’t mean they’re dead,” he protested. “Brian is probably on his way back now.”
“My grandson who traveled with him rode as hard as he could to bring me the news before Hector learned of it,” Malcolm said. “He was here not more than an hour before you and the lady arrived.”
Rory gripped Malcolm’s arm. “Your grandson saw my brother die with his own eyes?”
“Aye,” Malcolm said.
Rory felt awash in guilt as he accepted the painful truth. “How did it happen?”
“The Laird of Buchanan killed him.”
“What reason could he have to murder Brian?” Rory asked. “We’ve no quarrel with the Buchanans.”
“Some years ago the king issued a proclamation allowing any man who was wanted for a crime to clear his name by bringing another criminal to justice,” Malcolm said. “Buchanan had a murder warrant against him. When he met Brian and Farquhar on the road, he recognized them and recalled their escape from royal custody years before. He decided to deliver them to the crown and be relieved of his own heinous crime.”
“No Highlander would stoop so low,” Rory said.
“Buchanan did.”
“May he burn in everlasting hell.” Rory clenched his fists. He needed to punch something. “How did Buchanan find my brother in Torwood, a place Brian never should have been?”
“I’m afraid that was just bad luck,” Malcolm said. “Buchanan and his men happened to be traveling north on the same road that Brian and his men were traveling south.”
That coincidence struck Rory as odd. Was it just bad luck?
“My grandson says the Buchanan laird pretended friendship when they met,” Malcolm said. “He and his men joined the MacKenzies at the house where they were staying for the night and shared a jug and storytelling with them until late into the evening.”
The bastard had coldly calculated how to put Brian and his men at ease.
“After the MacKenzies went to bed, the Buchanans returned and surrounded the house,” Malcolm continued. “They demanded that your brother and Farquhar surrender.”
“Surrender? Ye said Brian was killed.” Rory’s throat was so tight he could barely get out the words. “What happened?”
“Brian came out of the house brandishing his claymore, and he was cut down.” Malcolm swallowed. “Your cousin Farquhar surrendered after that, and Buchanan took him to Edinburgh to be imprisoned.”
“Your grandson saw Brian fall, but perhaps he was only wounded.” Desperation made Rory grasp at straws. “He could be imprisoned with Farquhar.”
“While my grandson rode here, the others in Brian’s party started for Beauly Priory with Brian’s body, so that he may be buried with your father.”
Rory sank down on the stool and covered his face with his hands. He could not deny the truth. His brother was gone.
“I wish to God I didn’t have to tell ye this last part,” Malcolm said, “but ’tis better that ye hear it from me.”
When Rory looked up and saw tears glistening in the tough old warrior’s eyes, he felt as if a hole had opened in the floor beneath him.
“As proof for the pardon Buchanan sought”—Malcolm paused, struggling to get the words out—“he took your brother’s head to Edinburgh.”
***
Sybil clutched at her skirts. She was at a loss as to what she could do or say to ease Rory’s pain in the face of losing his brother to such a wretched death. His eyes were filled with horror, as if he was watching his brother die and could not stop it.
“I should have been there,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I could have prevented this. I know I could have.”
In his grief, Rory kept repeating the same words, over and over.
Sybil went to stand beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“’Tis my fault he’s dead,” he said. “I failed him.”
“You’re not to blame. He was a grown man,” she said, attempting to soothe him. “He made his own decisions.”
“Ye don’t understand.” Rory turned fierce eyes on her and thumped his fist against his chest as he said, “It was my duty to protect him.”
He got up and stormed out of the cottage. When Sybil started to follow him, Grizel held her arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Give the lad a bit of time,” Grizel said. “He’s had a bad shock.”
“Trust my wife on this, lass,” Malcolm said, nodding. “We’ve known Rory since he was a babe.”
“We didn’t give the lad a chance to tell us anything about you.” Grizel eyed Sybil up and down. “So who are ye to our Rory?”
“I’m…I’m…” Sybil hesitated, not sure how to describe herself in a way that would explain her traveling alone with Rory.
She could see from Grizel’s sour expression that the woman’s opinion of her was sinking lower the longer Sybil failed to answer. Though Sybil normally could spout white lies when the situation called for it, she found herself unable to lie to this old couple who were obviously very fond of Rory.
Finally she settled on, “Rory signed a marriage contract to wed me.”
That was true as far as it went. She could not very well tell them the full truth—that the contract was a fraud and Rory did not know it.
“You’re Rory’s bride?” Malcolm said.
Again, Sybil could not bring herself to lie outright, so she smiled and let them draw their own conclusions.
“Well then, Rory won’t have to sleep with the cow tonight after all,” his wife said. “The two of ye can share the loft.”
“They won’t be staying the night,” Malcolm said. “Rory will want to be on his way to Castle Leod.”
Sybil glanced over her shoulder toward the door, wondering if it was too soon to go to him. “Why does Rory blame himself for his brother’s death? He wasn’t even there.”
“Brian was a kindhearted lad, well liked by all,” Grizel said as she resumed stirring the pot that hung over the hearth fire. “But he was too trusting by half. Rory was always the strong one.”
“I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but Brian never had the makings of a chieftain.” Malcolm found his pipe on the table, lit it with a bit of kindling he held over the hearth fire, and sat down again. “If Rory had wanted it, I believe the clan would have chosen him over Brian when their father died, but Rory always insisted that the chieftainship rightly belonged to Brian.”
“Loyal to a fault, that one.” The old woman pointed her wooden spoon at Sybil. “That suited Hector. He knew he could control Brian.”
“The two lads were only fifteen when their father died. Hector, as the closest adult kinsman and a man of great experience, was given the role of tutor to the young chieftain,” Malcolm said around the pipe clenched between his teeth. “After Brian came of age, Hector continued to hold the reins.”
“And Brian let him,” his wife put in. “That’s what caused the strife between the two brothers.”
“Ach, Rory will have a fight on his hands now,” Malcolm said.
“What fight is that?” Sybil asked, though she thought she knew.
“To take his place as the next MacKenzie chieftain.” Malcolm paused to draw on his pipe. “After years of ruling in Brian’s name, Hector won’t let go easily.”
“Rory has the better claim,” Grizel said, “being both Brian’s heir and his father’s eldest living son.”
Sybil struggled to absorb the news that Rory was about to become chieftain of a powerful Highland clan.
This changed everything.
As chieftain, Rory’s marriage choice would have far greater consequences than it would as a chief’s younger half-brother. His marriage must be a carefully chosen alliance for the benefit of his clan. While she was confident he would protect her as his guest, he could no longer offer her the choice of marriage. He would put his duty to his clan first, as he ought.
Rory would be grateful to her for understanding why he must destroy their marriage contract—and she would never have to hurt his pride by telling him that her brothers had made a fool of him.
“If Rory is to claim his rightful place—and keep it,” Malcolm said, drawing Sybil from her own thoughts, “he must outwit a sly and ruthless opponent who has succeeded in deceiving most of the clan for years.”
While there were a great many things Sybil needed to learn about surviving in the Highlands, she was well-versed in the games men played for power. She had observed them from a close vantage all her life.
She thought she left all that behind when she escaped with a wild Highland warrior. Her warrior, however, turned out to be a chieftain. Or he soon would be. After Rory had done so much for her, there was finally something she could do for him. She could help him win this power struggle with his uncle, if he would let her.
She had tried so hard to save her brother from the miscalculations that led to his downfall, but he would never listen to her. She shook off the bitter memory. No matter, she was determined to help Rory outwit his uncle. She would learn all she could about the players in this new game and be ready.
What he needed now, however, was the comfort of a friend, so she left the older couple and went outside. She found Rory sitting on a log overlooking the stream that ran by the cottage. She went to stand behind him.
“I’m here,” she said, and draped her arms around his neck.
He clasped her hand where it rested across his chest. They remained silent for a time, watching the water ripple over the rocks in the river.
“We have to leave,” Rory said. “With luck, we’ll have at least a couple of days before Hector learns of Brian’s death.”
“Where will we go?” Sybil asked.
“To Castle Leod in Eastern Ross.”
“Malcolm said that’s where you’d go,” Sybil said. “Why there?”
“My father built Castle Leod on the base of an ancient fort and made it the home of the MacKenzie chieftains.” Rory paused. “That’s where the clan will choose our next chieftain.”
“Then you’ve decided to do it? To become the MacKenzie?”
“There’s no one else who can stop Hector,” he said. “A chieftain must have chieftain’s blood. My younger brother is a priest, so that leaves only me and Hector.”
“Are ye certain ye want this?” A sudden fear for him seized her heart. “There’s always a price to be paid. My brother tried to rule all of Scotland, and now he’s living in exile.”
“I never wanted this,” Rory said. “I admit I was frustrated with my brother at times, but I only ever wanted to help him be a better chieftain.”
“All the same, you’ll fight your uncle for the chieftainship?”
“Hector is attacking our neighboring clans and turning our allies against us,” Rory said. “That is a dangerous path that will anger the crown and weaken our clan against our greatest enemy, the MacDonalds. I cannot let that happen.”
Hector did not sound so very different from her brother Archie, who fought a bloody battle in the streets of Edinburgh to gain power and instead caused the downfall of his family and clan.
When they returned to the cottage, Malcolm and his wife were waiting outside for them.
“Ye must set aside your grief, son,” Malcolm said. “The clan needs ye, and we need ye now.”
“I will do my duty.” Rory gripped Malcolm’s shoulder. “I swear to you on the blood of my father and brother that I will defeat Hector and take my place as the MacKenzie.”
“I know ye will succeed,” Malcolm said. “You’ll need as many clansmen at Castle Leod to support ye as we can muster. I’ll send my sons and grandsons to spread the word among those we can trust.”
“When the time is right, we’ll need them to light the fires to call the clan to the gathering at Castle Leod,” Rory said. “Meet me at Killin at…”
Sybil wanted to listen to the rest of their plan, but Malcolm’s wife took her arm and pulled her inside the cottage.
“Many will say that you’re a poor choice for Rory’s wife, being a Lowlander,” Grizel said.
Sybil already knew that too well. If the woman was going to lecture her, she wished she’d be quick.
“But I disagree,” Grizel said. “Hector consorts with demons. To fight him, Rory could use a lass at his side who has the protection of the faeries.”
“The faeries?” Sybil raised her eyebrows. When Grizel pointed at Sybil’s throat, her hand went to the pendant her mother had given her.
“That stone holds powerful magic,” Grizel said. “Never take it off.”
Sybil ran her thumb over the smooth, polished surface. Malcolm’s wife made her nervous.
“Your heart is burdened with lies,” Grizel said, which made Sybil almost jump out of her skin. “But I believe ye mean to help our Rory.”
“I do want to help him.” Sybil could barely get out the words.
“Aye,” the old woman said, nodding to herself. “When ye look at him, the air around ye turns a shimmering blue.”
Sybil stifled the urge to make the sign of the cross for fear of insulting the older woman. Before she could ask what the blue glow meant, Grizel thrust a cloth bag that smelled of fish into her hands.
“For your supper,” the older woman said. “Now, don’t keep your man waiting.”
“Thank you and God bless,” Sybil said.
Rory was already mounted when she went outside, and he pulled her up behind him.
“We’ll meet at Killin,” Rory said.
“Until then, keep your sword sharp, ceann-cinnidh,” chieftain, Malcolm called out and raised his fist as they rode off.